Awakening A New Generation of Hunters

Christian's P.O.V. 

In all my years of existence—years stretched thin by immortality—I've yet to comprehend love. Love, that insidious emotion that weakens even the mightiest of beings. The cause of so many downfalls. I fear it as much as I envy it, its power both alluring and terrifying. It's a weakness I swore to never indulge in. I've built a life on strength, on fear. Those who know me cower, trembling in my presence. Their fragile lives hang on the sharp edge of my whim. Call me many things—a monster, an abomination—but never the devil. 

And yet, my time of reckoning has arrived. The time where my very existence hinges on finding my soul bond. The blood bond—a primal mating of souls, a union that both completes and consumes. Without it, the rational mind unravels, sanity slipping into madness. It's a tether I never wanted but now cannot avoid. 

A sharp, persistent ringing pulls me from my brooding thoughts. The doorbell. 

When I open the door, I'm greeted by the sight of her—a witch. Her green eyes gleam, their sharpness cutting through the gloom that lingers in my home. She is bold, brazen even, daring to step into my domain without fear. My instincts remain silent; no alarm bells, no warnings. She's different. Intriguing. 

I step aside, granting her entry, my gaze burning into hers—a silent declaration of power. She moves cautiously but with purpose, her movements a delicate balance of tension and grace. She sits at the table, her presence stirring the magic in the air. I follow, lowering myself into the chair opposite her, the energy between us crackling like a storm held at bay. 

"I had a vision," she says, her voice steady, elegant, and commanding. 

Her appearance strikes me—the dark hue of her skin like a canvas for centuries of wisdom, her silver hair a crown of experience. She exudes a power unlike any witch I've encountered. 

"And how, pray tell, does your vision concern me?" I ask, reclining in my chair, studying her with veiled curiosity. 

Witches with visions are rare. Among their kind, they are considered sacred, revered for their connection to the unseen. That she's here, in my home, speaks volumes. 

"I need you to protect my daughter," she says, her tone laced with a calm urgency that demands my attention. 

I smirk, leaning forward. "And why would I do that?" 

She doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she extends her hand. There's no hesitation in her gaze, only an invitation wrapped in quiet power. Intrigued, I take her hand, her warmth an odd contrast to the chill of my own. Her eyes glow, and the world around me dissolves into darkness. 

.

The first image is of her—my fated one. Her beauty is devastating, her presence magnetic. Dark skin glowing with vitality, her natural hair a crown of perfection. But it's her eyes—brilliant green orbs full of fire and unspoken strength—that ensnare me. 

The vision shifts. A demon looms, a grotesque predator whose presence sends waves of fury through me. It targets her and an older woman, her mother perhaps. The demon's attack is merciless, scorching the older woman from the inside out, leaving her broken and lifeless. Another scene flashes before me: a man, her father, sleeping soundly as the same demon descends, its claws tearing through him with monstrous precision. 

The devastation doesn't end there. My fated one, her grief palpable, is forced to carry on. I see her face marked by sorrow, her eyes heavy with loss, but she does not yield. Her will to survive is unbreakable. In her pain, she transforms—her beauty amplifies, her power unfurls like a storm waiting to strike. 

The vision is relentless. It draws me deeper, showing me her iron resolve and the incredible strength that radiates from her. Even through the haze of agony, she stands, unyielding, unbroken. 

When the vision releases me, my throat is parched. I down a glass of water, my hands trembling from what I've seen. 

"She is your fated," the witch says, her voice cutting through my thoughts. "She is the light that will need the dark to survive. Her destiny lies at the School of Potential, not far from here. Protect her from the demons that hunt her." 

I scoff. "Demons? Do you not know who you're speaking to?" 

Her gaze sharpens, unwavering. "I would rather trust you—a demon who cannot harm her, than the beasts who would devour her completely." 

Her words land like a blow. Before I can respond, she stands, her hands weaving a portal of shimmering energy. "Protect her," she commands, her voice an echo in the air as she vanishes, leaving me with nothing but questions. 

. 

Her name comes to me unbidden: Vita. She is the light. 

For the first time in 125 years, my existence has purpose. Her radiance ignites something within me, a boyish excitement I thought long dead. 

As I pace my room, my eyes fall on an old photograph—the three of us, my family. My parents. Memories I've buried rush back, clawing at my chest with the ferocity of a storm. 

Hunters, they called themselves. Elementalists—a kind fused with ancient natural gifts and Nephilim blood. Those were the real monsters, their self-righteousness driving them to murder anyone with tainted blood. They slaughtered those of demon heritage. Before people were "woke," those with gifts were labeled witches and burned at the stake. 

The villagers, all human, grew suspicious of my irregular heterochromia eyes. At first, they thought I'd grow out of it. But by the time I turned five, they came. Those damned villagers rallied the hunters—monsters bolstered by wolves and dogs who murdered innocent babies if their mothers so much as fell ill. 

My mother knelt before me, her blue eyes brimming with tears as she took my small hand in hers. She showed me everything—her love for me and my father, the battles she had fought for us. How, when they demanded she rid herself of me, she chose to cast herself before the higher powers in Paradise. 

It was judgment day for her. They had all told her to get an abortion, and when she refused, they exiled her from Paradise. She was never truly alone, but her heart shattered. She was cast out after all she had done as an angel of forgiveness and guidance. Her mission had been to lead the lost and the damned toward righteousness. Yet she was banished for love, for daring to bring light into the darkest soul and guide it to redemption. 

She made a new home with my father, choosing us—a fallen and an abomination. She wove bedtime stories that made me feel normal, even when kids gossiped about my amber eyes or fled from my social awkwardness. 

Then came that dreadful night. The hunters torched our small log cabin, aided by firebenders and earthbenders who trapped us in, intending to burn us alive. Smoke might not kill immortals, but flames could destroy demons and those of mixed blood. 

Mom shielded my trembling frame, her focus sharp as she searched for an escape. Satisfied with the direction, she pivoted and burst through the door, but it was already too late. The hunters had poison capable of immobilizing demons, making them easy prey for the flames. 

We fled into the woods, my father carrying me. Suddenly, he faltered, collapsing in agony as the poison took hold. 

"Take our son," he rasped to my mother. "Keep him safe. I'll hold them off!" 

She fell to her knees, screaming at the elements to take back their power, but nothing could stop the poison from ravaging his body. Yet, somehow, he stood, facing the humans who sought to end us. 

"Daddy!" I sobbed, sensing his resolve. 

"Run!" he bellowed, his power surging as if to command the very earth beneath us. 

My mother shook her head, dark hair swirling as she refused to leave him. 

"My love, I will find you," she whispered, her voice breaking with a vow she knew he could never fulfill. 

Her wings, pure and blue as the sky, unfurled with a protective grace. She lifted me in her arms, tears streaming down both our faces as we soared away. She clutched a small bag filled with memories—the only pieces of our fractured lives we had left. 

The trauma of that night broke me, but worse was the not knowing. What happened to them? Did they survive? That night, my mother took me to a witch, begging her to keep me safe. She kissed my forehead and vanished, destroying any trail she left behind. 

The witch, Mrs. Williams, took me in. Her soft brown eyes held a warmth that assured me my parents would return when the time was right. 

I spent years honing my abilities, mastering the power I had inherited until I was certain I could destroy the earth itself if I so desired. Mrs. Williams's mortality eventually claimed her, but by the age of nineteen, I was ready to face the world. With the small bag in hand, I stepped into a human-infested world—a world that hated my kind. 

And the rest? The rest is history, as old and bitter as time itself.